BOOK I.
CHAPTER ONE
The Barrier
He sat at a desk in the small office he had taken. Before him were papers and bills—unpaid—and letters too, he had not opened, while to one side were others he had read, and had typed replies thereto. He had paused in his work, and was gazing stupidly at the litter before him.
His name was Sidney Wyeth, and his home was away off in the great northwest, in a strip of territory known as the Rosebud Country. As we meet him now, however, he is located on the fifth floor of an office building, slightly toward the outskirts of the business district of one of our great American cities. He is by profession an author, which might explain his presence at a desk. It happens, however, that he is not there this time as a weaver of dreams, but attending to matter in connection with the circulation of his work, for he is his own publisher.
At that moment, however, he was nothing, for he was sick. For days he had felt a strange illness. Obviously it had almost reached an acute stage; for, apparently unable to maintain an upright position at the desk, he presently stretched himself face downward.
He might have been in this position an hour, or it might have been only a few minutes; but of a sudden he was brought to a position again erect, with ears alert, since he was sure he had heard a sound without. He strained his ears in silence.
Outside, a soft rain was falling. As he continued to listen, his gaze wandered out over the city below, with its medley of buildings that rose to various heights, and sparkled with electric lights. His gaze, in drifting, presently surveyed the main street of the city, an
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unusually wide thoroughfare, filled with the accustomed traffic. Beyond lay the harbor, for the city is a great port, and the same was then filled with innumerable vessels from far and near. A huge man-o-war arrested his attention for a while, and then his gaze wandered further. A wind had risen, from the way the water was dashed to spray against the windows. The sound of a clock striking five resounded through the damp air, and echoed in stentorian tones. It was late-winter, but, due perhaps to the overcast skies, twilight was rapidly fading into darkness.
Failing to hear any further sound, he presently resumed his tired position, and a few minutes later was lost in a sickly slumber.
There could be no mistake now! A step sounded in the hallway. It was a light step, but firm and brisk and forward. It was unmistakably that of a young woman. Onward it came in the direction of his small office. There was a brief pause when the footsteps reached the door, and then a knock, but without response from within. Presently the door was pushed open, and the intruder entered the room lightly. Still, Sidney Wyeth, unconscious of the presence of his visitor, did not move or speak.
The stranger paused hesitatingly, when once inside, and observed him closely, where he sat with his face buried in his arms.
She was an attractive colored girl, trimly dressed in a striking, dark-blue tailored suit, cut in the latest fashion. A small hat reposed jauntily upon her head, while a wealth of dark hair was gathered in a heavy mass over her ears. Her delicately molded face, set off by a figure seemingly designed by an artist, were sufficient to captivate the most discriminating critic.
A thin dark strap extended over one shoulder, at the ends of which a small case was attached. Presently she drew a book from this same case, and crossed the room to where the man sat.
«Good evening,» she ventured, pausing at his side, and fumbling the book she had taken from the case, in
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evident embarrassment. He mumbled something inaudible, but remained silent. His outwardly indifferent reception had not a discouraging effect upon his visitor, however, for no sooner had she caught the sound of his voice, than she fell into a concentrated explanation of the book.
Soft and low, in spite of the rapid flow of words, her voice fell upon his ears, and served to arouse him at last from his apparent lethargy; but it was not that alone which made him rise to a half sitting posture, and strain his ears. It was a peculiar familiarity in the tone. As he continued to listen, he became convinced that somewhere, in the months gone by, he had heard that voice before. «Where was it?» he whispered, but, in his sluggish thoughts, he could not then recall. There was one thing of which there was no doubt, however, and which added strangely to the mystery. She was explaining his own book, The Tempest.
At last, in his morbid thoughts, he gave up trying to connect the voice with a person he had once known, and, with a tired, long drawn sigh, raised his hand wearily to his head, and grasped it as if in pain. The flow of words ceased at once, and the voice now cried, with a note of pain, and plainly embarrassed:
«You are ill and I have disturbed you! Oh, I’m so sorry! Can you overlook—pardon such an awkward blunder?» She clasped her hands helplessly, and was plainly distressed. And then, as if seized with a sudden inspiration, she cried, in a low, subdued voice: «I’ll make a light and bathe your forehead! You seem to have fever!»
Turning nimbly, and before he could object, had he wished to, she crossed quickly to where a small basin hung from the wall; above this was an electric button, which could be seen in the semi-darkness. Touching this, whereupon the room became aglow with light, she caught up a towel; and, dampening one end, she recrossed to where he sat, strangely stupid, and, without hesitation, placed the wet end over his burning forehead, and held it there for possibly a minute.
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«Now,» she inquired softly, in a tone of solicitous relief, «do you feel better?»
As she concluded, she stepped where she could see his face more easily, and sought his eyes anxiously. The next moment, both recoiled in sudden recognition, as he cried:
«You!»
She was likewise astonished, and, after only a fraction of a moment, but in which she regarded him with an expression that was akin to an appeal, she likewise exclaimed:
«And you!» Quickly she became composed; and, catching up the book, as though discovered in some misdemeanor, with a hurried, parting glance, without another word, she abruptly left the room.
She was gone, but his brain was in a tumult.
And then the illness, that had been hovering over him for some time, like a sinister ghost, suddenly came into its own, and a moment later, with a convulsive gasp, he fell forward across the desk, deathly sick.
It had begun in Cincinnati more than a year before. Wyeth, accompanied by an assistant, had come down from Dayton for the purpose of advertising his book, The Tempest in that city. It was just preceding an election, that resulted in a change in the city government. And it was then he became acquainted with Jackson.
Now, being of an observant turn of mind, Wyeth took an interest in the state of affairs. He found the city very much worked up on his arrival. He had not yet secured accommodation, but, while standing on a corner after checking his luggage in a nearby drug-store, he was gazing up and down the street taking in the sights.
«Gentlemen,» said someone, and turning, Wyeth and his companion looked upon a man. He was a large mulatto with curly hair, small eyes, a sharp nose, a firm chin, and an unusually small mouth for a Negro. He was dressed in a dark suit, the worse for wear, while his shoes appeared never to have been shined—in fact, his appearance was not altogether inviting. And yet, there was
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something about the man that drew Wyeth’s attention, and he listened carefully to what he said. «You seem to be strangers in the city, and of co’se will requiah lodgin’. He’ah is my ca’d,» he said, extending the bit of paste board upon which Sidney read at a glance
THE JACKSON HOUSE
FIRST CLASS ROOMS, TRANSIENT OR REGULAR
OPEN DAY AND NIGHT
«I’m the proprietor and the place is at yo’ disposal. Supposin’ you stop with me while youah in the city. I’ll sho treat y’ right.»
Sidney believed him, but his appearance made him hesitant. He looked questioningly at his companion. The other’s expression was unfavorable to Jackson. So, after a pause and a perfunctory nod, they dismissed him and proceeded to look further in quest of accommodation.
An hour or more was thus lost, and, being unable to find a room that satisfied them, they at last, with some reluctance, found their way to The Jackson House.
Inspection still left them dissatisfied, but it was getting late, so they decided to spend the night. Jackson showed them to what he termed his «best room.» Wyeth looked with evident disfavor about the walls that were heavy with cob webs, while the windowsill was as heavy with dust. Jackson, following his gaze, hastily offered apology and excuse.
«Eve’thing needs a little dusting up, and the reason you happen to find things as you do, is because I’ve been so busy with politics of late, that I have jes’ nach’elly neglected my business».
Ah! That was it, thought Sidney. He had felt this man was in some way out of the ordinary. «So you’re a politician?» he queried, observing him carefully now.
«You hit it, son,» he chuckled. «Yeh; that’s my line, sho.» Turning now, with his face wreathed in smiles, he continued: «Big ‘lection on in a few days, too.»
«So I understand,» said Sidney. «I shall be glad to talk with you regarding the same at your convenience later,» and, paying him for the room, they betook themselves to the street.
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Election day was on, and Jackson was the busiest man in town. He was what may be called a «good mixer,» to say the least, and Sidney and he had become good friends. So said Jackson that morning.
«Got a big job on t’day, kid; yeh, a big job.»
«So….»
«Yeh; gotta vote thirty-five ah fo’ty n***a’s, ‘n’, ‘f youah ‘quainted wi’ ouh fo’kes, you c’n ‘preciate what I’m up ag’inst.»
«Indeed….»
«Yeh; n***a’s o’nry y’ know; and lie lak dogs; but I’m ‘n’ ole han’ at the bus’ness, cause that’s my line. Yeh. Been votin’ n***a’s in this precinct now fo’ mor’n thi’ty yeahs, so you’n see I autta know what I’m ’bout.»
«I’d bet on that.»
Jackson chuckled again. «The fust and wo’st difficulty is the dinge’s ig’nance». Drawing a sample ballot from somewhere, he displayed and explained it at some length. «Now we gotta pu’ty faih line up on this ticket this trip—’co’se the’s a lotta suckers on it that I’d lak t’ see scratched; but we cain’ affo’d to take the risk, ’cause it’s lak this. N***a’s so ig’nant ‘n’ pig headed they’d sho spile it all ‘f we tried to have them do any scratching. So the only sho thing is to instruct them t’ vote straight. Get me, Steve?»
Wyeth, listening carefully, nodded, and for a moment, a picture of the titanic struggle of a half century before, rose before him; its cause, its moral and more; it’s sacrifice. Jackson was speaking again.
«Now we sho gotta win out this time; this ‘lection has got to put in ouh candidates; ’cause ‘f we don’t—and this is between me ‘n’ you ‘n’ that can a beah—things sho go’n break bad wi’ me! But ‘f things slide through O.K.—’n my candidates walk in, it means a cole hund’d fo’ muh; think of it,» he repeated, «a cole hund’d, Ah!» And, smacking his lips after a long draught of beer, he emitted an exclamation to emphasize what it would mean to him, that wouldn’t look very nice in print.
«What do these others get if your candidates are elected?» asked Wyeth, when Jackson paused.
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«Aw, them suckers gets theahs wether my men’s ‘lected a’ not. That’s always my goal. ‘f I could get them t’ vote so much ah’ nothin’ I could make a who’ lot mo’; but we gotta fo’k out two dollahs a piece, win or lose—and, a co’se, plenty of liquah; but we don’ give a damn ’bout that, as the saloon men furnish that, gratis.»
«And you can depend upon them to vote as you wish—rather, instruct?» ventured Wyeth. At this Jackson gave a low, short laugh as he replied:
«That’s whe’ I plays the high ca’d ‘n’ gets a hund’d,» and, laughing again in that peculiar fashion, he would say no more.
